Attack of the Trolls
by Hagrid
Summary: NEW--A more realistic(I think) view of wizard wars--with part 2!!!


Next installment- I have taken my time, ok!

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Hagrid woke up in the Leaky Cauldron, with his head in a toilet. Bits of vomit in his beard reminded him of the wild night of carousing he had. Part of him wondered if McGonagal would ever speak to him again. He shrugged off the enormous headache and stumbled out of the tavern while muggles gazed at the giant who smelled of stale beer and sweat. "I ent ever 'ad 'alf that much liqour in me life" Hagrid swore and walked back into the pub. Wizards in for breakfast recoiled at the sight (and smell) of Rebeus. He wheezed at the bartender ""Ow much on me tab, Mike?" "Nothing, Hagrid, your buddy paid it off." Hagrid remembered the last time he got drunk and met with a stranger. He swore some more, and loudly. Mike sorta edged him over to the floo powder and said "HOGWARTS" and pushed Hagrid in. 

Hagrid stepped out of his chimney and collapsed on the bed. When he woke up it was night again. "Damn good thing it ent the school year, eh Fang?" Fang barked his agreement. Boy, did he stink, Hagrid thought. He said "proluo prolu prolutum" while waving a wand, and lo and behold a shower emerged from the wall. Thirty seconds he walked out the door smelling of lilacs. He watered the plants, then went back inside. He had just finished a stoat sandwich and a batch of biscuits when he looked at the calendar. "By Crikey, the quidditch match is coming up! I better get my tickets"! He went around the hut and walked into a shed. 

He emerged a second later on a monster of a black motorcycle, and rose into the sky. A cough of smoke announced his arrival at the Parks and Recreation Department of the Ministry of Magic. "Tew tickets fer me (Hagrid ain't the kind of chap who fits in one seat, dontcha know) fer the Quidditch World Cup, please. And make em together if yeh would." The small lady behind the desk obliged with a sort of shocked smile. "Yessir, of course" she stammered as she took two tickets from a roll hanging in midair. "That'll be 35 galleons, sir" Hagrid gave her a sweet smile and said, "Och, lass, I afeared this happening, yeh see, I dinna bring that much, I only 'ave 30." The lady started to mumble to herself "Well, it's an inflated price, 30 galleons, it isn't like I'm giving it away... Alright sir, that's fine". Hagrid took off on Sirius' bike, waving to the lady. He gazed along the country-side, and saw that a pool of blackness was spreading from the south... 

Next installment- I have taken my time, ok!

Hagrid forgot how to breathe as he watched the liquid darkness sweep along the meadows. He abruptly started to cough and wheeze and then gunned the motorcycle toward the opposite direction, and, more importantly, the office of the Ministry of Magic, which was situated on a cloudbank above London. (whenever it gets really foggy there are witches and wizards flying there to petition for something) He landed on a cloud, parked his motorcycle, and ran inside. 

"Proffeser Dumbledor! Proffeser Dumbledor! Come quick, thars another attack! Professor Dumbledor jumped out of a five-story window and landed next to Hagrid. "Hagrid, are you drunk?" The professor's eyes were worried as he studied Hagrid's face intently. "No sir, ahm sober, but there's an attack, powerful, dark magic." Professor Dumbledor almost smiled at Hagrid "Hagrid, Voldemort was hit by a hit-wizard squad not three hours ago. We have their owl that just got arrived." An evil cackle sounded around them "Oh, really, I didn't think you were that stupid. Amazing what a little polyjuice potion will do to your cat!" Professor Dumbledor whirled around while Hagrid started to haul ass for his motorcycle. A bolt of blue lighting hit Hagrid and he froze while a crystal blue ball enveloped him. 

Professor Dumbledor watched the battle. Muggle marines, even when enchanted by wizards, were no match for Voldemort. But they were definitely making a dent in the amount of storm-trooper-ogres, the flabby white giants that seemed to be the backbone of Voldemort's army. The short green kamikaze trolls with the battle-axes were right out of a child's storybook.

Gunny Gonzolez, or Gonz, as he was called, was seemingly nonplussed that he was fighting to save the world from dark magic. Only hours before, though they seemed like years, he had learned that magic was real, and now, he was finding out that even of he won, he wouldn't remember. The fighting wasn't so hard, they had plenty of ammunition, the wizards had duplicating spells that made one case into five, food, water, and he was set. The one thing that scared him, the veteran of three campaigns him was the ogres. Damn, they were the biggest SOBs he had ever seen. They had to be right next to you, then they would pulverize you into pieces of bone and gristle with hands the size of cars. They were easy to take down; they seemed to burst if a bullet opened a hole in their skin. They had been guys vomiting as the green pus hit them. He had only seen it happen once, to a FNG, too. The wizards were all hibernating, or something. Gonz didn't have to worry much longer about the spells that had affected the wizards, because a troll got too close, and bright arterial blood spurted from the stump where his head had been as the troll bellowed a war cry and ran off into the darkness.

Harry Potter (You knew he was going to get in here somehow, didn't you) was wandering around with Ron and Hermoine floating behind him, unaffected by the sleeping spell. He didn't know what had happened; just it had all gone quiet when he was fishing in the pond with Ron. He had turned to talk to Ron, except Ron was on the grass, snoring quietly. Then he heard Hermione start to snuffle. Everyone was asleep. Harry started to run to Hagrid's shack. Locked. He whistled, and his Firebolt glided to him, like a soft breeze. As soon as Harry exited the grounds of Hogwarts, he felt the crackle of magic run through his veins like ice-water. There was a sound, like the time Dudley has thrown his VCR across the room, a horrible crunch that echoed on and on.

Corporal Macgiddings was out of his league. He had just joined the corps, and he had very little experience with war. And absolutely NONE with wizard war. He had seen the little man in robes "bless" all of them, or so the captain had said. But the captain was dead now, and no denomination had purple robes and wands. Now they were fighting "aliens" and Corporal Macgiddings was sick and tired of the bull he heard. He rounded a corner and opened up with his BAR. He was rewarded with the meaty thwack of bullets hitting flesh, and another ugly green troll stopped moving. But there were more swarming the ridge about ¼ mile away. Mac plopped down on the ground and scratched out a foxhole as he pulled out his map and grabbed his radio "Lima 12, this is Romeo 7, do you copy?" "Roger 7, what can I do for you?" "I would like my grass cut, Lima, coordinates 134, 981" "Roger, plane on way". He checked his field of fire and waited.

A grass-cutter is a 2,000-pound high explosive bomb that can only be dropped from large planes, and was originally used for clearing LZs, or (helicopter) landing zones. A large ball of fire was blossoming on the horizon. It was hundreds of meters in diameter, and at least that high. The 1,000 or so trolls unlucky enough to be near there were dissipated like so much chaff. One corporal was responsible for all of this destruction. Even he, ¼ of a mile away, had the top of his cap singed. Sadly, no one even knew about the rat scuttling among the carcasses. He was missing a finger on his right hand, and not even he knew what happened.


End file.
